


seeing that the sun was not going to warm us

by chainofclovers



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 22:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16962678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: There are so many things you shouldn’t do if you’re Frankie Bergstein and you’ve got a friendship with a little something else going on, the something else borne of loneliness and fondness and proximity and a week-and-a-half in a hotel.





	seeing that the sun was not going to warm us

**Author's Note:**

> Cheated on my ____ fic last night with this tiny story of experimental!Frankie written by sort-of-experimental!me. Ordinarily I might just post a piece of this length on tumblr, but we're in a fight.
> 
> Title from the Elizabeth Bishop poem "[A Miracle for Breakfast](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=32380)."

Alive since ‘45, and in all that time no one taught Frankie Bergstein how to add sex to a friendship without turning into a complete disaster. There are so many things you shouldn’t do if you’re Frankie Bergstein and you’ve got a friendship with a little something else going on, the something else borne of loneliness and fondness and proximity and a week-and-a-half in a hotel. At least, Frankie’s pretty sure that’s where this came from. And she’s doing it all wrong. 

You shouldn’t kiss sweetly and fiercely during sex, then joke in your next breath about friends with benefits. You shouldn’t kiss so much in bed period, because it will start to feel wrong that you don’t kiss when one of you takes off on an errand or a walk around the block. You shouldn’t move back in to your former house, reclaim your old bedroom in your old studio, but show up to her room at odd hours like her bed’s a rest stop and you’re just passing through. You shouldn’t sit next to your friend on the couch and comb your fingers through her hair and ask her “What do you need?” When she frowns at you and says “nothing,” you shouldn’t make a joke about vodka and friendship and vibrators. You shouldn’t follow up your dumb not-even-a-joke with this question: “What do you want?” You shouldn’t kiss her when her answer can’t escape, and you shouldn’t let the silence turn into more silent sex. You shouldn’t be the big spoon so often, because you won’t be able to tell when your little spoon is crying. She’s so quiet. You shouldn’t— _But shouldn’t you?_ —make your friend feel limp and happy and good about her body and bring her snacks in bed— _What comes after she’s done with you? How will you give up your part in her survival?_ —and feed her tenderly but with a nonchalance that’s helping her heal her half-stitched wounds. You shouldn’t proactively tease her about her next boyfriend because she’ll drop her fork and it’ll startle you both when it clatters against the floor. You shouldn’t kiss her in apology and scoot behind her so she can lean against you. You shouldn’t give her your fork so she can finish. You shouldn’t scratch her back and call her beautiful and stack the empty plates on the nightstand that already holds your book, your metal water bottle (so good at keeping the water perfectly cool), the calm lumps of jade and rose quartz you set there weeks ago. Without her permission, you shouldn’t protect her room with stones, or with the prayers the stones remind you to say on her behalf: for good luck, for peace, for love. You shouldn’t invite her to the bar and bring three other friends last-minute. You shouldn’t invite her to what you hint is a group lunch, sit at a table for two, and wait for her to arrive. You’re never early. You’re never alone in the daytime. What’s gotten into you? You shouldn’t alternate her favorite songs and your favorite songs on a mix—they sound awful side-by-side, and every time you play it during sex you risk memory-ruining the future of your dearest sounds. You shouldn’t make her do her knee exercises, rewarding her each time: a foot massage, a drink, an orgasm. You shouldn’t count the times she chooses a reward that involves your skin against hers, and you shouldn’t gloat because you have nowhere for the gloating to go. You shouldn’t create an economy of pain and pleasure in your own home. You shouldn’t ask for her lips against your ribcage, her fingers inside you. You shouldn’t ask for her to stay there, stay and stay, and then come back up and kiss you. You shouldn’t ask for anything. She will do everything you ask. 

One night Frankie wakes halfway up because Grace has opened the door, walked through the studio, slid into bed. Has taken Frankie in her arms. _Mmm_ , Frankie murmurs, half-asleep. Grace waits. Gets impatient: “Wake up.” When Frankie’s awake, Grace speaks again. “Friendship and.” Repeats for emphasis: “Friendship _and_.” She kisses Frankie. It’s different, it’s a decision. Something she needs. “I didn’t know what it would be like,” she says. “Doing it with someone I already loved.” Kiss. “I don’t want to do this with anybody else.” Frankie turns on a light. They look at each other, sober and clear-eyed. Certain as a key turning in Frankie’s guarded heart.


End file.
